


Every June Until September

by define_serenity



Series: Snowbarry Week 2017 [3]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Swan Princess (1994) Fusion, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 08:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12577884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/define_serenity/pseuds/define_serenity
Summary: It’s there that the queens Nora and Carla happened upon the same romantic idea. From Caitlín’s tenth birthday onward, Barry and Caitlín would be brought together each summer in the hopes that they would fall in love. Both their husbands grew weary of war years ago, and uniting their kingdoms would make their enemies think twice before launching another campaign against them.Barry would be King, and Caitlin would be Queen, and together they would become fair and just rulers.It was a new wish, perhaps a somewhat selfish one, but one that grew deep roots in the monarchs’ hearts.





	Every June Until September

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **Snowbarry Week 2017** , day 2: **arranged marriage**.
> 
> Sort of a _Swan Princess_ au, focusing heavily on the start of the movie, but mostly I have no clue where this all came from.

 

Once upon a time, in a kingdom by the narrow sea, there lived a King and his Queen with but a single wish in their hearts.

They longed for a child, to take over the throne, to care for the people, but most of all to light a part of their lives thus far untouched by love. This wish was simple and it was pure, but as the monarchs soon discovered, not an easy one to fulfill. The Queen did not conceive for many years, the King’s reign grew longer, and hope dwindled with the passing of each season.

Remedies were sought in foreign lands, soothsayers were sent for to read the stars, and even magic consulted in the smaller back rooms of the palace where the King and Queen’s authority didn’t reach.

At long last, a daughter was born, a princess, and she was given the name Caitlín. With skin as fair as snow, lips like pink azaleas, and big brown curious eyes, she became the light of all the kingdom, loved and cherished by all.

From all across the land, both far and wide and from the towns that fell under the King’s protection, kings and queens and royalty of all kind came to celebrate the princess’ birth, bestowing lavish gifts of worth, each a new wish in their hearts for the princess to live a long and happy life, to grow up surrounded by beauty, and face each day with grace.

Among them were King Henry and Queen Nora of the central lands, and their young son Bartholomew, known to all as Prince Barry, because tried as he had, he hadn’t yet been able to pronounce his own full name.

Prince Barry approached Caitlín’s cot –set up in the throne room– at his mother’s urging, and handed over a beautiful gold necklace with blushing cheeks, a solid gold heart dangling at the end of it; the little princess reached up and grabbed it, and Barry giggled at the small moving bundle of a girl.

A collective swoon travelled the breadth of the crowd.

The feast that followed lasted well into the night, well past Prince Barry’s and Princess Caitlín’s bedtime. Wine flowed freely, laughter echoed all through the palace, and everyone rejoiced, because a pure heart’s wish had come true.

It’s there that the queens Nora and Carla happened upon the same romantic idea. From Caitlín’s tenth birthday onward, Barry and Caitlín would be brought together each summer in the hopes that they would fall in love. Both their husbands grew weary of war years ago, and uniting their kingdoms would make their enemies think twice before launching another campaign against them. Barry would be King, and Caitlin would be Queen, and together they would become fair and just rulers. It was a new wish, perhaps a somewhat selfish one, but one that grew deep roots in the monarchs’ hearts.

Behind the scenes a whole different plot unfolded, one of dark magic and immense greed — Hunter Zolomon, one of the King’s advisors, sought to destroy the Snow dynasty and take the kingdom for himself.

For now, he waited and bided his time, allowing the memory of magic to fade, and let the kingdom’s hopes return to that not-so-distant summer when Barry and Caitlín would meet.

 

.

 

**10 years later...**

Caitlín rides in on her father’s horse, sat sideways between his legs, a small frail girl dressed in blue with bangs falling into her eyes. Her new dress scratches against her skin and the long ride from the harbor in an uncomfortable position made her feet tingly — she herself hasn’t yet mastered the art of riding, despite the best tutors showing her how and the gorgeous white pony she got for her eighth birthday. She’d named it Lumi, after an ancient dialect of the word ‘snow’, a name her family has carried for centuries.

Alas her young legs had a mind of their own, as did the pony’s, and she’d grown to dislike her lessons. Caitlín tended to excel at the practices she put her mind to, so for horseback riding to come with such great effort and such little reward, she often hid inside empty slots of the bookcases of the palace library, which made for excellent reading nooks if she remembered to bring a pillow.

There, inside the pages of her beloved books, she pretended Lumi was a unicorn, not meant to be ridden or saddled or reined in, least of all by her, and she dreamed of releasing her into the wild outdoors, where Lumi could roam free and be with others her kind. Deep down the princess knew it’d be irresponsible to let a domesticated animal loose in the forest, where wolves and bears proved real dangers, but it was a nice dream to have.

To be free.

Her father lowers her to the ground below and her knees nearly give out, tingles spreading from her feet up her legs, blood rushing back where it belongs. She waits for her father to dismount and offer his hand before finally looking to the castle that’ll be her home for the next three months.

Up until this moment the central lands were but stories, tales her father told her of a caring and just King and Queen and their son, of a castle both impressive and modest, and she understands what that means now. King Henry ruled over a vast amount of land but most of it belonged to his people; the castle was impressive, with its large central tower, four smaller ones pointing at each wind direction, but there was no telling where the palace grounds ended and the village they rode past started, the transition between the two seamless, invisible. Nearly non-existent.

This was nothing like home, where all the grounds were divided evenly and equally among the people, but in a manner both logical and precise, so that none could ever dispute the borders of the land.

Caitlín sighed. How she wished she were back in her reading nook.

Right outside the palace doors stands Queen Nora with Prince Barry at her side, and a small contingent of guards dressed in their finest uniforms, there to greet the visiting monarch and the young princess beneath a symmetrical line of raised ceremonial swords.

Neither Barry or Caitlín looked forward to this day; for several months now their parents pressed upon them the importance of this first meeting, for reasons neither can yet fathom, and both are too young to enjoy being made to do something.

 _Meeting a girl?_ Barry thought, what could be so important about that? He knows far too many girls his age already and Caitlín being a princess doesn’t make her any more special; girls weren’t any fun, not like his friend Cisco from the village, who was learning to hunt alongside him. What did girls know about hunting? Wrestling? Shooting a bow and arrow?

The collar of his dress uniform pinches around his throat and there’s a cold sweat at the back of his neck as the king from the narrow sea approaches with the princess; according to his mother he met Caitlín before, but all he remembers is a gold heart dangling from a delicate chain, the same one the princess wears now. He bets her mother made her wear it.

Their parents exchange the standard greetings, while Caitlín and Barry regard each other from a distance. Caitlín thinks he looks conceited in his prim shirt and jacket, while Barry doubts Caitlín will be any joy to have around.

Then, Caitlín’s father and Barry’s mother nudge them forward, exchanging a quiet glance with each of their children to quickly put them in their place — they’re a prince and a princess and there are times they’re expected to act like it, even if they’re often still too young to fully grasp the meaning of that.

But they do as they’re told and approach each other as their parents look on.

“Hello, Princess Caitlín” –Barry bows formally– “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Caitlín follows with a curtsy. “Pleased to meet you too, Prince Barry,” she says, but before she’s even finished and stood to her full height again Barry’s left her side to traipse towards his mother. There’s no way he’s going to—

“Uh–uh.” Queen Nora wags a finger, and, pointing towards the ground, draws a concise circle, signaling for Barry to turn right back around. He glowers the way only a young boy could and puffs out a breath, before stomping toward Caitlín.

Caitlín shuffles back and forth, looking back to her father but finding nothing but encouragement, so she stands her ground. She’s not sure what else she can say, until she feels Barry’s hand take hers, and she watches with great horror how he reluctantly puckers his lips, and pushes a kiss to her skin. _Yuck_.

“So happy you could come,” Barry speaks through gritted teeth, and forces a smile he’s certain convinces no one. He can’t believe he’s stuck with her all summer. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll catch whatever’s going around among the village children, and he’ll be covered in itchy red bumps for the next three months. Anything sounds better than having to entertain _Her Royal Highness_.

“So happy to be here.” Caitlín tries a smile, managing better than Barry had, but none of this appealed to her either. She’s miles away from home, her father will leave again because he can’t be gone from the throne for too long, and even though her mother’s on route she’ll be expected to spend a lot of time with Barry. What even for? Why should this be so important?

The Prince and Princess return to their respective parent and stick by them as they all enter the castle. One of the maids leads Caitlín and her father to the North wing, adjacent the East wing where the royal family resides.

“Chin up, my beautiful boy,” Queen Nora says, and winks at her young son, who glares after Caitlín as if she represents his imprisonment. “This’ll be fun.”

But on this Barry and Caitlín agree; whatever this summer holds, it will most definitely not be any definition they uphold of the word ‘fun.’

 

Half of every day is devoted to their studies.

Caitlín reads and writes under her mother’s quiet supervision, though the matriarch stands by to answer any questions her young daughter has — Caitlín may be ahead in all subjects, but there’s plenty she has yet to learn. Years ago her mother tried to get her into sewing and mending clothes, but while Caitlín’s fingers were agile enough, it didn’t hold any interest to her. So the King and Queen nurtured her academic pursuits as much as they could, with the best tutors from far beyond the sea and across the kingdoms, a steady supply of new books on any topic she requested, and the space to unfold as one of the most literate princesses her age.

Barry, on his part, spends time with his tutor, the Scribe Wells, who prefers more practical lessons outside the confines of the palace; he teaches survival skills in the darkest parts of the woods, botany wherever there is vegetation, and astronomy in the middle of a field in the dead of night. Apart from academia Barry’s lessons involve physical training, like running, fencing, boxing and wrestling, and one of his favorite pastimes, archery.

 

Then, every day like clockwork, their parents bring them together. Be it for a carriage ride through the village, a supervised walk through the forest, or a visit to the stables, their parents are never far. Barry and Caitlín exchange pleasantries, inexperience and youth stuttering through their conversations, each of them mostly repeating what their mother and father suggested they say.

“What a lovely town this is,” Caitlín cheers, without seeing much of anything.

“What a nice dress you’re wearing,” Barry supplies, right before rolling his eyes.

Day in, day out, it’s the same old song. Summer’s at its height; there’s no cloud in the sky, a thankful breeze alleviating the brunt of the heat, and they’re stuck with each other through no wish of their own. Barry would much rather be teaching Cisco more about hunting, and Caitlin would rather read her books in peace, but that’s not what their parents have planned.

“Is there something wrong with you?” Barry asks one day, when they find themselves alone in the stables for a few minutes, their mothers attending to matters that don’t concern them. He looks at her as if she’s something peculiar, a puzzle he’s being made to solve, though he doesn’t have much care for the answer.

Caitlín blinks a few times, caught off guard by the sudden query. “What?” she asks, losing all sense of decorum, unaccustomed to insults that weren’t made for the specific reason of motivating her (one of her tutors, Scribe Stein, used odd methods for exciting her competitive side.)

“Can’t you make friends of your own?”

And for a moment or two, far too long Caitlín will later decide, she’s at a loss for words. Is that why her parents brought her here? Because they think her too isolated back at the palace, where there are few children around her age to talk to or play with? Would they do that to her without talking to her about it first? She has no need for more friends, or any friends for that matter, least of all someone as rude as Barry. She’s a princess, for heaven’s sake; she doesn’t have to tolerate this.

Caitlín huffs, “I don’t need friends like you.”

 

Thus, the mood for the summer is set.

Each time Barry and Caitlín are brought together they say what their mothers tell them to, nothing more, and reluctantly at that. Neither Barry or Caitlín have any desire to get to know each other better, so they count down every minute they’re forced to spend in the other’s company.

Summer was bound to end, eventually.

 

.

 

Nine moons come and go, but don’t last nearly long enough.

Far too soon Caitlín finds herself on the fleet’s flagship again, and while it may be one of her favorite places in the world, the wide-open sea fails to lighten her mood. They’re not sailing out to deeper waters, like her father enjoys doing now and then to show her the maritime life. Instead they travel North along the kingdom’s shoreline until reaching the mouth of the river Sid; from there it’s another day’s journey inland toward the central lands.

It’s not that the voyage held no interest to her, in fact, Caitlín imagined all the sights around her were her storybooks come to life — sunlight refracted off the water’s surface, the shoreline dotted with quaint houses, vast beaches, fishermen tossing their nets out to sea or their wives mending them where the tides tried to rip them apart. Further inland beaches gave way to rocky shores, cows and sheep grazing dangerously close to the water’s edge; it’s not the world Caitlín’s used to seeing, all filled with that unimaginable sense of wonder she spends so much time reading about, but never experiences firsthand.

People wave at them when they recognize the ship or the beautifully carved out mermaid at the prow, and she waves back giggling, like she’s a queen on her throne greeting the masses. She knows every inch of the ship from stern to bow, the greatest vessel her father had commissioned to date; the artisans that lived along the shores took great pride in their craftsmanship, and they were as much responsible for the strength of their fleet as were the men and women who manned the ships in battle.

The Lyrr, named after one of the ancient Gods of the sea, was constructed from the finest imported timber, cut by axe following the grain of the wood, adding more strength and flexibility while maintaining the lowest weight. Rip Hunter, a young master shipbuilder, had taught her all about it during one of her visits to the dry-docks, where more ships were being built. He’d promised to name a ship after her one day, and she’d blushed so deeply it must’ve colored her cheeks red.

 

This year, King Henry and Prince Barry await them at the harbor, where a great many of the townspeople gathered to catch a glimpse of them. The sight of so many starts Caitlín’s heart beating faster, far too many people scrutinizing her and her father, and no doubt her interaction with their Crown Prince; she’d hoped to avoid another awkward greeting this year, but it seemed the universe conspired against her.

Similar nerves coursed through Barry’s veins; he’d told his mother for weeks he wouldn’t kiss Caitlín’s hand again, not like last year, but he can’t be sure she’d been listening. Years of testing their patience taught him a trick or two about getting his way, but his parents remained extraordinarily intractable about this. Whether he liked it or not, he was stuck with Caitlín for another summer.

Neither of them had thus far figured out why.

 _What’s so special about her?_ , Barry thinks, she’s no different than any other princess, and he’s met his fair few. None of the others were this stubborn, or so set on following the rules.

 _What’s so important about this particular prince?_ , Caitlín can’t help but wonder. She’s met other princes from far distant lands and she never had to spend the summer with any of them. At least the others had been nice, and hadn’t felt the need to comment on her albeit privileged but sheltered life.

“It’s good to see you again, princess,” Barry utters with his arms crossed tight over his chest, remaining by his father’s side; at least his father isn’t making him go over there.

Caitlín curtsies. “And you, Prince Barry.”

Much like the day they first met over ten years ago, the crowd swoons at the sight of them.

Barry sighs and rolls his eyes, following Caitlín to an open carriage reserved for the two of them, which will be taking the long route through the village — it’s the same route they took last summer, and it’ll take them past all his friends’ houses, who’ll no doubt be laughing at him once he drives by waving.

“Is that your dad’s ship?” Barry asks, turning around to get a better look at the Lyrr, moored at the docks alongside a dozen smaller fishing vessels. He’s never seen a boat this size up close before, but he’s read about them in his books, ships fitted with 36-pounder long guns along the hull, sails made of cotton, and the finest oak imported from foreign lands. It must be wondrous to stand on the bow and see nothing but water stretched as far as the eye can see. He can’t believe Caitlín of all people has experienced that.

“It’s _one_ of his ships,” Caitlín boasts with a great amount of pride; one day the fleet will be hers to command, along with her father’s army. “And I’m getting one named after me.”

“Really?” Barry’s eyes widen in surprise and Caitlín would hazard to say he seems impressed.

“Your father doesn’t have any?”

Barry sits back in his seat. “There isn’t much sea to defend this far inland.”

Caitlín purses her lips and thinks about it, how Barry’s world looks nothing like hers, how she’s a child of the wide-open sea and places logic above all else, and Barry’s very much a son of the earth, of the trees and the grass and the wide-open fields, unencumbered by any rules. At the end of the day they aren’t much alike at all, and she can’t understand how their parents don’t see that.

 

“I must say, Carla,” Queen Nora says, her hands linked together behind her back as she and Queen Carla track a path through the forest, following the children at a safe distance. “I didn’t think they’d get along so well. Barry hasn’t shown much interest in girls.”

Queen Nora knows her son well; at fourteen his greatest interests lay with his studies and getting up to no good with some of the boys from the village, mastering the bow and arrow, and hunting with his father. She hoped Caitlín might teach him some discipline, perhaps some poise and restraint at more official functions held at the palace.

“Caitlín has shown no interest in boys,” Queen Carla replies, “and we’d like to keep it that way for a while longer.”

“Perhaps an alliance between our two kingdoms is all we can hope for.”

Queen Carla smiles. “Not such a terrible compromise.”

Further up ahead in the forest, however, Barry’s starting to get on Caitlín’s last nerve. It rained last night, so there are puddles on the footpaths, and he makes a show out of walking his boots through each and every one of them. Here she thought Barry being older meant he’d have a bit more sense, but it seems he’s no different than any other boy.

“Come on, _Caity_ ,” Barry says, keeping himself entertained as best he can, “live a little.”

“Don’t call me that,” Caitlín hisses, and daintily steps around another puddle lest she dirty her dress; her mother would have a thing or two to say about the time the staff spends on making her dresses, let alone washing them.

“It’s okay to have a little fun now and then, you know,” Barry adds and _ohhhh_ , he makes her so angry. Why are her parents making her do this? Why can’t she make friends at home in her own time rather than having to spend time with this big child?

Caitlín stomps to a halt and squeezes her eyes shut; she’s been told the stories plenty of times before, about the power behind pure heart’s wishes, which is what her mother and father did before she was born. She doesn’t see why she can’t use one in this situation.

“It’s not like there’s much else to do, and–” Barry halts in his tracks when he notices Caitlín’s no longer at his heels, but stopped a few feet away with her eyes closed. _Huh_. “What are you doing?” he asks, taken aback as he toes a few steps in Caitlín’s direction. He’s not used to not having someone’s undivided attention, but maybe she saw something he didn’t, or playing some game he doesn’t know yet.

Caitlín sticks up her nose. “I’m wishing you away.”

Barry’s jaw drops. That’s some nerve coming from someone who’s making his summer utterly miserable for the second year in a row. He has a lot of better things to do than entertaining _Princess Snowball_. “Wishing doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?” Caitlín shrugs. “If it’s pure and in my heart–”

“You can’t wish away someone that annoys you.” Barry huffs, while a mischievous smile curls around his mouth. He’ll show her. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Caitlín bristles and balls her hands into fists, but stands her ground — if she wishes hard enough, if she wishes the _exact right amount_ the Gods are bound to hear her plea; they’ll take Barry far from here, or take her home, and she won’t have to deal with him another second longer.

Caitlín’s so focused on her wish she fails to hear Barry moving about, and she’s caught unaware when something splats against her shoulder, something thick and wet that starts making its way down. She opens her eyes and examines the odd occurrence.

And Caitlín screams.

There’s mud trickling down her arm. _Barry threw mud at her_.

Too shocked to react and unable to move Caitlín watches helplessly as Barry reaches down for another handful of mud and molds it into a ball between his fingers — she squeals trying to get her legs to move, but the next chunk of mud hits her in the stomach, soaking straight through her dress. What kind of maniac does this? _To a princess_?

At the sight of her Barry doubles over and laughs, and that does it; she’s not going to stand by and let some boy laugh at her misfortune; misfortune he caused, no less! Oh, she’ll show him what she’s made of, she’ll show him _her idea of fun_.

Stomping toward a second smaller pool of mud she digs a hand deep into the wet earth, and flings a big clump of it Barry’s way.

It hits him in the face.

Which shuts Barry right up.

Caitlín straightens her shoulders in triumph and beams, and there’s nothing holding her back anymore — both she and Barry grab another handful of dirt and fling it at each other, without aiming at anything in particular. A ball of dirt narrowly misses her knee and hers hits Barry in the shoulder, and the next one hits him square in the chest.

Who’s ‘no fun’ now?

All sense abandoned both Caitlín and Barry plow through every puddle they encounter, laughing, cheering, the water splashing up around their feet ruining their shoes, and they grab for mud every chance they get, throwing it in the other’s general direction until—

“Bartholomew Allen!” Queen Nora gasps aloud, having caught up to her young son and the girl she hopes he’ll some day grow to love.

Queen Carla is equally horrified by the spectacle she beholds, Barry and Caitlín covered in mud from head to toe, chasing after each other with more of it.

At the sound of his name, however, Barry freezes. He didn’t think this through; the maids are going to string him up once they see the state of his clothes.

“Caitlín Snow,” Queen Carla shouts, and marches over to her daughter, pulling her away by the arm, “you are a princess!”

“He started it!” Caitlín points an accusing finger at Barry. “Look what he did to my dress!”

Barry might’ve responded with an excuse of his own if he weren’t too busy spitting out clumps of wet dirt that’d gotten not only in his nose and ears, but his mouth too.

Serves him right, Caitlín thinks, proud she stuck up for herself the way her father would’ve wanted — so what if it wasn’t ladylike or befitting a princess? Sometimes one had to play dirty to get the upper hand.

“Young lady, I am very disappointed in you,” her mother rants once they return to her bedchamber, tugging at her dress while one handmaiden helps her out of her shoes and another drags a comb through the knots in her hair.

A bath was being filled to wash off any trace of the mud fight before anyone else could see.

“You know better than to let a boy rile you up like that.”

Her mother’s right, of course, her parents and tutors taught her different ways of resolving conflict, and none of them involved ‘an eye for an eye.’ But what else was she supposed to do? Stand there and take it? No one taught her to be passive either, and she didn’t think words were the way out of the situation.

No matter. She won, anyway.

 

.

 

Caitlín does end up making more and more friends.

There’s one summer where Barry decides she’s in no way worthy of his company, and he avoids being alone with her at all cost, so in turn Caitlín decides to keep up with Barry no matter what it takes — just because he’s _a boy_ doesn’t mean she as a princess has to adhere to those strict and stereotypical rules; way she sees it, their titles make them the same in almost every way, apart from their gender and Barry’s brazen attitude, and of course his blatant disrespect for her.

When it comes down to picking teams for some of the games the children play Barry chooses only the boys, like Cisco and Leonard, and even Wally, even though he’s insecure around Barry, and he’d much rather be on whatever team his sister’s in.

It’s natural for the village children to choose each other, so Lisa picks Iris and Felicity and Gypsy first, leaving her all alone and the rest of them with an uneven number to play with should she join them. Caitlín isn’t unfamiliar with this feeling, of being left out, of the other children being afraid to treat her like any other girl because of her title, and she’s envious how Barry manages it with such ease. They aren’t that different; Barry carries a title too. So why wouldn’t they want to play with her?

At home she plays with a lot of the servants’ or soldiers’ children that run around the palace, but they’re never the same and she doesn’t have a bond with them the way Barry seems to have with the children here. It’s difficult for her to admit, but the reason she retreats into her books is often because she’s lonely. Barry has no brothers or sisters either, but he’s made a family of his own. She envies him that, too.

“You can be on our team, milady.”

At the sound of those words her ears perk up and she catches Iris’ smile when she looks to the group of girls fiercely set on kicking the boys’ butts.

“I can?” Caitlín asks, shuffling back and forth, “You’ll be uneven.”

“We’ll take turns!” Felicity runs over and takes her by the hand, pulling her into the group, which envelops her within seconds. “When one of us gets too tired someone else can step in.”

It’s like music to her ears.

With little to no effort she becomes a part of something that summer, a part of the ruling culture in the central lands, where there may not be such strict boundaries as the ones at home, but it’s facilitated an organic way of life, where villagers and royalty aren’t separated by uncountable degrees. Caitlín finds she rather likes that idea.

All summer long their days consist of battles between the boys and the girls, in hide-and-seek, in capturing the flag, impromptu races in the fields, and even card games invented on the spot; it’s the most fun Barry or Caitlín ever had, even if the girls win far too many times to Barry’s liking.

As a result the boys are forced to play dress-up with them from time to time, and Caitlín comes up with the ingenious idea of making the boys wait on them hand and foot.

Barry understands best of all it’s payback for not choosing her or any of the other girls, because more than anything Caitlín wishes to be treated as an equal. If there’s no separation between royalty and the townspeople here, why should there be a difference between her and Barry? ~~~~

Queens Nora and Carla watch from afar with great amusement; Barry may be a prince but he could do with a lesson in humility, and Caitlín’s never had much opportunity to learn which ideals she wished to uphold should she one day become Queen herself. They both have a lot yet to learn, and what better way than through play?

Caitlín shrugs. “You did tell me to make friends of my own.”

Barry grumbles and hands Caitlín the cup of tea she requested. Why did she have to remember everything he ever said to her?

 

.

 

The year of Barry’s sixteenth birthday growing pains start plaguing his limbs, which often keep him up at night. When he does sleep he wakes up in a cold sweat and his sheets soiled, and he can’t look or think about any girls without his body responding in the most disrespectful way. His physicians assure him this happens to all boys his age, but he’s none too pleased with this sudden lack of control. It’s unpredictable and embarrassing, not to mention uncomfortable.

Along with his growing limbs his skin grows oilier, and uneven patches of facial hair will show up that take a painstakingly long and painful time to be removed. Pimples show up on his chin and cheeks and forehead, which makes him want to hide from the outside world until this phase passes.

“Master” –the Chamberlain knocks at his door during one such morning, his head tucked beneath two pillows to ignore how high the sun had reached already– “your mother requests your presence in the dining hall.”

“I’ll eat here,” he mumbles, grateful to find his sheets clean as he turns in the bed, and his body not in its usual exciteful state. How much longer would this last? On top of everything else his voice has gone haywire too, its cadence rising and falling without warning.

“Princess Caitlín and her mother will be arriving in an hour, and–”

“Why should I care?” he calls, but gets up nonetheless; he’d much rather avoid his mother coming up to his room and lecturing him about manners and showing the queen some courtesy. He may not like his summers being usurped, but he knows how to be respectful toward others. “She knows her way around.”

“Honestly, sir, your manners astound me,” the Chamberlain’s voice echoes through the wood of the door as if it’s his mother’s, the right amount of consternation mixed with a precise dose of disappointment. “If you’re to marry her–”

“ _Marry_ her?” He jumps to his feet, voice slipping into a squeak, and he’s at the door within seconds. He flings it open with little to no care for _manners_. “Who said anything about marrying her?”

Marry Caitlín? _Caitlín_? That same girl who’s had her nose stuck up in the air since the day they met? Who laughs at him and mocks him? Who wishes him gone every chance she gets? _Marry her_?

The Chamberlain shakes his head as if he missed the clues all along. “You’re a smart young man, milord.”

Barry’s eyes nearly pop out his head and his heart drops to his stomach. No. This can’t be true. Caitlín’s summers here are just that, summers, a season she spends away from home for God knows what reason and—

No. It can’t be. His parents would’ve told him.

Without another thought he’s out of his room and down the hall, headed downstairs in nothing but his breeches, scaring more than a few of the maids a step back along the way — the Chamberlain calls after him and urges him to put on his robes, but he’s set on finding his parents as fast as he possibly can to clear this up.

He finds them at a corner of the dining hall, being served breakfast by a newly hired scullery maid who gasps when she lays eyes on his state of undress.

“What’s this about me marrying Caitlín?” he demands, right before the Chamberlain catches up to him and forces him into his robes — he sighs but complies, tying the velvet robe tightly around his waist.

Meanwhile his mother and father exchange a look he recognizes far too well; it’s the same one they exchange right before making him do something he has no interest in doing. He’s seen it too often to ignore the implications, and the room starts spinning.

“You expect me to marry her?” His voice falls flat and his stomach drops even lower; all these years, all these summers were meant to bring him closer to Caitlín? Were his parents aware that was decidedly not working?

“We expect you to consider the benefits of a _potential_ union,” his mother responds, in a voice too soft to leave him with any illusions; they’ve given this thought, they both have, without consulting him. “If you don’t have feelings for her–”

He huffs an incredulous laugh. “I _don’t_.”

“You’re young, Barry,” his mother hushes, in that all too knowing tone, and stretches a hand out urging him to sit down, “given time–”

Barry takes a step back. “I don’t even like her.”

This is _preposterous_. No one can tell him who to marry, let alone who to love; that’s not how it works. “She doesn’t like me. I don’t think we’ve ever said a nice thing to each other.”

“Barry–” comes his father’s voice this time, but he won’t hear this from him either.

“I can’t believe you never told me,” he whispers, any fight in him dissipated in the knowledge that he’s been lied to for years.

Barry stumbles a few steps back, and runs from the room.

“I told you this would happen,” says King Henry to his wife, though he’s none too worried about this development. His son has a fine head on his shoulders and a good heart, as does young Caitlín; they’ll figure this out, even if the outcome isn’t marriage. He never thought he’d marry either until he met his future queen; this beautiful swan of a woman turned his world upside down, and hadn’t left his side since.

“He’s young, my love.” Queen Nora reaches for her husband’s hand, recalling the same memories in her mind’s eye. “As we once were.”

Once upstairs Barry gets dressed, and takes the long route out again to avoid running into his parents or anyone who might want to steer him toward the harbor, where Caitlín and her mother would be arriving soon. He has no intention of meeting her, not today, maybe not even tomorrow. How would he look her in the eye? Did she know? Was she in on this too, or was she yet to discover the truth?

Stopping by the kitchen for some food he leaves the palace through one of the servant’s entrances and makes his way into the village, quickly swallowed up by the hustle of the morning market. Left and right there are merchants from abroad trying to sell him their wares; fresh fish and cured meats, grains of all kinds scooped into woven baskets, and delicate hand-painted shawls.

He’s greeted by the townspeople with great delight, and even though he’s not in a good mood he stops and talks to those who need him.

There were times he wished he weren’t a prince, that he could run away and live off the land like Wells taught him, that he didn’t have all these responsibilities weighing him down — yet he loves his life all the same, his father’s kingdom and the prospect that one day he might be the man he is, loved and respected by the people. He has a lot of growing up to do before that time arrives, and he shouldn’t be burdened with thoughts like whom he’ll marry once the time comes. Shouldn’t love be something that befalls him unexpectedly?

“Barry?” Iris asks when he comes around to her house; it’s a bit bigger than the others, a gift from the king for Iris’ father’s many years of service in the Royal Guard — Joe had tried to reject the offer but his father wouldn’t hear it.

The West family, Joe and Iris and Wally, have been an integral part of his life for as long as he can remember; through Joe’s service to his father he met Iris as a child and they’ve been friends ever since. Things weren’t always easy, Iris’ stubbornness often rivaled Caitlín’s and Iris often took Caitlín’s side, but whenever he needed advice, especially about Caitlín, these past years he’s turned to Iris’ sage wisdom.

He sits down on a low wall leading up to the front door of the house, their usual spot.

“What’s wrong?”

For a second or two he’s at a loss for words, because there was a time he entertained the thought of him and Iris together, so it seemed strange discussing this with her now — but he needs someone to talk to who won’t unnecessarily judge him. Was he being selfish thinking only of himself and not the greater outcome? Uniting his home with that of the narrow sea would greatly expand the kingdom, give them access to trade across the sea and vice versa, allow the narrow sea to trade with the peoples in the mountains. Up until now neither kingdoms lacked resources, but there’s something to the idea of expanding them further.

“Did you know I’m meant to marry Caitlín?” he asks, even if his parents hadn’t put it in such definitive terms — they implied he had a choice, while simultaneously mentioning his youth. He has much yet to learn, of that he’s too aware, but should one _learn_ to love another? Should love take that kind of effort?

“No.” Iris settles next to him. “But it makes sense.”

His head turns and he looks to Iris with a frown. Did it? Was he the only one who didn’t see the reasoning behind forcing two people together who can’t stand each other?

“Royalty marries royalty.” Iris shrugs, and he flashes back to that single kiss they shared, in the center of the maze in the gardens of the palace, how it hadn’t felt right and they both knew it, but not because of his title. He and Iris had a connection, but not a romantic one.

Other than their titles, he and Caitlín had no connection to speak of; they weren’t even friends.

“She’s very beautiful,” Iris says, “and clever, like you.”

“And rude,” he supplies, while debating if he thinks Caitlín beautiful at all, “and conceited, and she always tries to get her way.”

“This isn’t her home, Barry. How would you feel getting dragged away from everyone you know to spend the summer with someone who thinks you’re conceited?”

A listless sigh escapes him; he agrees it can’t be easy to be torn from home, especially now that he knows what it’s all about, but that didn’t erase anything that’s happened between them. Not he or Caitlín have made an effort to be friends, which he admits is as much his fault as it is hers. Perhaps it’s time he does try to get to know her; if Caitlín’s as clueless to this as he was not an hour ago they’re in the same awkward position and might as well help each other find some consolation, even if it’s merely about the fact that neither of them want this.

 

The following morning he’s up and about when he’s expected to, yet doesn’t find Caitlín at the breakfast table along with their parents. Figures. He decides to make an effort and she can’t even be bothered to show up.

“Please, forgive my daughter’s absence, Barry,” Queen Carla says. “She wished to get a head start on her studies for the day.”

“Of course” –he nods– “and please allow me to apologize for my absence at the harbor.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“She has requested you join her fencing lesson this afternoon,” his mother says, her tone even, which signals she’s still greatly displeased with him over his absence all of yesterday.

Barry frowns. “She fences?”

“Quite masterfully, as a matter of fact.” Queen Carla raises an eyebrow, which makes him rethink his tone in a single instant — he should stop assigning his prejudice to Caitlín or her upbringing. She’s proved to be a different type of princess time and again, versed in a wide variety of academics as well as her share of physical training. He highly doubts she boxes, with her slight frame and dainty hands, though he never pegged her for a fencer either. Somehow she surprises him at every turn, and for the first time he can’t decide if that annoys him or impresses him.

Meeting her for a lesson is the least he can do.

 

“I didn’t think you were going to show,” are the first words Caitlín speaks to him in nine months, and she doesn’t even take the time to turn around and look at him as she picks up her helmet and tucks it underneath her arm. When she finally does turn to face him, dressed in full protective gear, it’s with an air that tests his patience right away, like the thought of him chucking his commitments doesn’t surprise her at all.

He’s had his qualms with Iris, and there’ve been days where even he and Cisco didn’t speak, but there was something about Caitlín that consistently drove him up the wall. Why did everything have to be a competition to her?

“I uh–” His voice breaks, and Caitlín’s eyes widen. He swallows hard, hoping it might even out his voice, but his vocal cords refuse to cooperate, squeaking as he continues, “–didn’t have much of a choice.”

To her credit, Caitlín tries her utmost to hide the small smile that betrays her amusement, and busies herself with her foil, bending it slightly to test its flexibility.

“I hope you’re up for this,” she says, swishing the thin sword through the air.

“ _Please_.” He huffs, which would’ve sounded a whole lot more convincing if it hadn’t come out high-pitched and shrill. He backs up toward the en-garde line, and puts on his mask. “Try and keep up.”

And Caitlín _snorts_ , of all things, before she laughs and puts on her own helmet, fixing her foil in sixte. “Give it your best shot, Your Highness.”

 _That_ gets his blood boiling.

“En garde!” the referee calls, and he lunges into an attack, reaching out with his front foot while straightening his back leg — Caitlín parries and successfully evades the offensive action, spinning on her heels before resuming her stance, a grace to her movements every great fencer needs. Fencing’s all about maneuvering in and out of an opponent’s range, accelerating and decelerating and changing directions.

Caitlín meets his every action with minimum effort, moving away from him or directly toward him whenever she needs to, and it throws him off his game; she’s brilliant at this, and he never knew. What else doesn’t he know about her?

His uncooperative limbs aren’t helping him either, and more than once the game has to be called to a stop because he trips over his own feet, which doubles Caitlín over laughing.

Forget making an effort; the humiliation isn’t worth it.

“Oh, come on, Barry” –Caitlín laughs– “You have to be able to take a joke.”

He huffs.

“Especially when you expected me to lose.”

He squeaks in offense, “I didn’t–” but Caitlín raises an eyebrow that halts his tongue. He hadn’t given her the benefit of the doubt, that’s true, but there’s no need for her to be so smug about it — if he’d been at his best they’d have been far more evenly matched.

 

.

 

There’s a knock at the door of her bedchamber Caitlín ignores, her gaze fixed toward the sea, where the Lyrr’s being readied for its next journey to the central lands. For the first time for as long as she can remember setting foot on her beloved ship doesn’t excite her, rather the thought turns his stomach and she has to turn away from the window, before everything starts spinning again.

Facing the mirror she scarcely recognizes herself, her face too shiny and her hair too flat, and somehow her skin doesn’t fit right either. She’s grown this past year, and the seamstresses do their best to keep up, but she fears her clothes were in need of yet another series of adjustments.

Her mother had been so pleased when the maids informed her of the blood in her sheets, but to Caitlín it felt like another step toward someone she wasn’t certain she wanted to be. Or someone who had no idea who she had to be in the first place. What did it mean to one day sit on the throne? Did she carry her father’s authority? Her mother’s practical wisdom? Did she have the fortitude to wear the crown?

She hoped the coming years wouldn’t remain this confusing.

But her ascension to the throne wasn’t all that was keeping her awake.

“Milady?” –there’s another knock at the door before one of the handmaiden’s, Patty, comes in– “Your father sent me to help you pack.”

“I won’t be packing this year.” Caitlín plunks down at her dressing table, littered with brushes and bows and ribbons that refused to tame her hair. “I can’t believe–”

She throws up her hands and turns to look at Patty, who’s gathering her dresses together for the journey. “All this time I was worried they just wanted me to make friends,” she says, and focuses on Patty so hard she fears the handmaiden might blink out of existence, “but _him_?”

How had she missed it? How could she not have guessed her parents wanted her and Barry to be more than friends? Each time her mother sung Barry’s praises, every time she pushed them closer together, all the times she’d catch her mother and Queen Nora staring at them with such fondness — all in some vain attempt at getting them to like each other.

“If you ask me he’s quite a catch.”

“Why don’t you marry him then,” Caitlín mutters, slumping back in her chair with her arms crossed like some petulant child; well, maybe that’s how she feels, irritated, annoyed, betrayed even over finding out that all this time their parents brought her and Barry together so they could fall in love. Fall in love! With Barry!

“Apologies, milady.” Patty bows her head. “I didn’t mean–”

She sighs. “I just can’t believe mother and father expect this from me.”

Patty looks at her and Caitlín wonders what she sees; if she still sees a princess at all, or a girl hopelessly lost in the world she grew up in. She’s always known she’d marry a prince, but did that have to be the one prince she couldn’t stand?

“All due respect, milady, I think they mean for you to fall in love.”

Should they not be one and the same? It seems illogical and wholly outdated to decide on a marriage before there’s any love, but to presume there will be love at all? What did her parents think would happen? Did they think they could raise her to think for herself, take on an active role in her life, and then simply bend to their wishes?

She’s meant to meet someone and fall in love, and only then should she consider marriage.

A few moments later her mother comes through the door, instantly displeased with the state her room is in.

“Young lady, why are you not packed?”

“Mother” –Caitlín stands, ready to fight her mother on this. It has to stop; she won’t be paraded out like some prize to be won, and she’s not set on winning Barry’s heart in turn– “I am not going. My hair’s a mess, I have spots, and the very thought of the sea is making me sick.”

She brings a hand to her stomach as she’s hit with another wave of nausea thinking about the majestic Lyrr and the moment she’ll have to throw herself over the port bow to empty her stomach. Of all the things her body could plague her with, did it have to be seasickness?

“Sit down, love.” Queen Carla’s frustrations mellow with sympathy for her daughter’s plight, and she lovingly strokes a hand through her thick hair as soon as she’s seated at the dressing table again. “I’m afraid this is a stage every young woman must go through. It won’t last.”

It better not, Caitlín thinks, or she’ll turn herself into a recluse who shuns the daylight. She’s not sure why she thinks so, but her ‘awkward’ stage could definitely have waited until after the summer to show up. It’s unladylike enough that she made fun of Barry’s clumsiness every chance she got last summer, and the thought that he’ll be even more merciless — it turns her stomach all over again.

She decides that no, she doesn’t mean to look good for Barry’s benefit, but rather her own; it’d ease her nerves knowing her hair remained in place or no new spots would appear on her face, and she had at least some control left over her limbs.

“A change of scenery will do you good,” her mother says, parting her hair into sections for braiding.

“Did you and father do this?” Caitlín asks. “When you were promised to him?”

“Your father and I–”

Caitlín’s pained by her mother’s hesitation. Her mother came from a land across the narrow sea, where her brother, Caitlín’s uncle, ruled a small but thriving kingdom; all three of her mother’s sisters were married off to pay off their father’s debts, yet, ironically it was her uncle’s wife who steered the economy back to a proper course. Even though her mother had been a princess too, she married for the benefit of her grandfather’s kingdom, and she’d found happiness. Hadn’t she?

“Don’t get me wrong” –Her mother’s hands still– “I love your father, but it took me a long time–”

A long time. Is that why she was introduced to Barry when she was ten? Is that how her parents think this will work; that after a while both of them will stop fighting what everyone wants for them?

“We love you with all our hearts, Caitlín,” her mother says, a line she’s heard many times before when being told something she won’t like, “and we only want what’s best for you.”

Her parents’ love for her is not in question, nor are Barry’s parents’ good intentions, but how can she accept this? How can she take this lying down? Is it her lot in life to be tamed, domesticated, and reined in?

“You have a choice I never had.”

Choice? Where is her choice in all this?

 

Another crowd awaits Caitlín at the harbor when she arrives, the townspeople waving and cheering, throwing flowers onto the docks. Caitlín tries her best to smile and wave back, but she’ll be a lot more comfortable once her feet are back on solid ground. Her knees are wobbly and weak as she traverses the gangway, not unlike that first summer when she’d made her way to the palace sitting in her father’s lap.

Her feet touch solid ground and Caitlín sighs gratefully, only then giving her eyes leave to seek out Barry.

It takes a few moments for her to realize he’s the man at King Henry’s side, grown several inches since she last saw him. Gone is the boy who’d stuttered and stumbled his way through most everything last summer, and replaced him is a young man with broad shoulders and wide hips, exuding a confidence she’s never seen in him before. His eyes are somehow greener and his freckles a shade darker, his hair kissed by the summer sun.

It’s– _unsettling_ that she notices.

“Princess,” Barry says, and gives her his standard bow, which she follows up by the usual curtsy, and a hushed, “Barry,” while she hopes her cheeks haven’t turned completely red.

Caitlín clears her throat and focuses her eyes elsewhere, before following Barry to the carriage that’ll take them the long route through the village — the show of ceremony has become a part of their yearly routine, all for the people, which she and Barry have come to accept as one of their duties as heirs to the throne.

Today it crosses her mind that a great many of the townspeople might wish for those thrones to stand side by side in the same room.

Did everyone want this but her?

Did Barry want this?

“Did you do something different with your hair?” Barry asks, and Caitlín turns her head in time to watch him roll his eyes.

Her eyes narrow. “No, I didn’t.”

Maybe she should be grateful that Barry tries, but all she can think about is punching him in the face. His perfect spotless face.

“You look– nice,” Barry adds, but utterly fails to stifle the smile that curls around his mouth. He doesn’t want a relationship or a friendship with her any more than she does with him, and she’s glad they can at least agree on that — a union between them would be a disaster, not to mention laughable. They don’t even like each other.

 

Barry bests her in everything the rest of that summer; fencing, chess, playing cards, and he doesn’t pass up a single opportunity to rub in how terrible she’s gotten. What’s worse is she can’t even blame him, because she did the same thing to him last summer without considering her own body would change soon enough.

So she avoids being alone with him as much as she can, and she succeeds for the most part, mainly because her mother empathizes with her current condition. At least that way Barry can’t insult her to her face.

 

.

 

In time Barry and Caitlín will grow comfortable in their roles as Crown Prince and Princess.

Caitlín will drown in her books and study, learning about her mother’s and father’s world through the wisdom of others, and she’ll sit in on meetings where she takes everything in from a distance; observing, filing away questions she’ll ask about later in great detail. In truth she knows little of the people and what’s out there, not from firsthand experience in any case, and that’s another reason her mother and father are glad she spends summers in the central lands. Without her journeys she’d never see what greatness her future kingdom encompasses, see the true wealth and splendor of it, because her imagination will only ever get her so far. In the central lands, Caitlín has no other choice but to adapt to each new situation, think for herself, and find practical solutions to problems.

From an early age Barry goes out amongst the people alongside his father, helping him settle disputes that he should be too young to understand, but he proves smart as a whip and a natural problem solver. He’ll grow into his long limbs and master archery and fencing, and there’s nothing he enjoys more than taking his prized black stallion out to the meadows and ride as hard and as fast as he can — the wind through his hair sounds like the freedom he reads about in books or he imagines being out at sea must feel like. In his heart of hearts he craves adventure, seeing the world beyond this kingdom and beyond the next, explore foreign lands and learn different tongues, but he’s aware he’s meant for something greater. One day he’ll be King, and he’ll be responsible for the wellbeing and prosperity of all his subjects; it’s his duty and his birthright and when the time comes he won’t hesitate taking it.

Barry’s outgoing and wears his heart on his sleeve, perhaps somewhat too much, whereas Caitlín keeps her emotions hidden behind a composure becoming of royalty, but perhaps not a Queen.

By all accounts Barry and Caitlín are polar opposites.

Given enough time, however, they might discover that’s not entirely true.

 

.

 

Their sixth summer together Barry and Caitlín are granted a little more leeway; their parents acknowledge that they’re both capable of dividing up their days the way they choose, so the amount of supervised meetings drops considerably — maybe it’s because their parents deem them grown up, or perhaps they’ve accepted that friendship between their son and daughter is the best they can hope for, but it’s a welcome reprieve no matter the reason.

“Can I expect you to be civil?” her mother asks her on one such occasion, too engrossed in her reading to find the will to pull away, and Caitlín happily takes advantage of that opportunity. Unsupervised meetings meant no forced or awkward small talk or lines she and Barry have rehashed a hundred times before. If she’s lucky Barry will be on his own and they’ll simply tolerate each other’s presence in silence for an hour or two; strange as it may seem, neither of them have thus far risked disobeying their parents’ wishes.

“If _he_ is” –Caitlín shrugs– “of course.”

“You,” her mother calls toward one of the soldiers near the door, “Go with her.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Caitlín hisses, though one glance from her mother silences her — she’s no longer in need of a chaperone, but it’s best not to tempt fate and argue lest her mother yet decides to accompany her.

The palace guard waits patiently for her to join him before he leads the way; he’s a bit taller than her, dark hair, dress uniform kept impeccably clean. He can’t be much older than Barry.

“What’s your name, officer?”

“Ronnie, milady.”

He’s rather handsome, Caitlín thinks as her mind wanders; this past year has brought about many changes in her, not in the least her taking notice of boys and them finding something in her that they find appealing. She often wonders if she’s considered beautiful by anyone, or if Barry’s ever thought such a thing about her — she doesn’t wish to be anyone’s prized bride simply because she’s deemed pretty.

“Do you like working at the palace?” Caitlín asks, decided that for the time being she can’t stand the silence; for some reason she can never shake the sense of walking to her doom. She’s been spoon-fed this friendship with Barry for such a long time it’s starting to leave a bad taste in her mouth, and despite their shared displeasure over their parents’ wishes for them, those wishes are the one thing she and Barry have never talked about.

Why was that?

Ronnie looks at her.

She smiles. “It’s not a trick question.”

“King Henry is a generous man,” Ronnie answers politically, holding open one of the outer doors, and she wonders not too precisely why she’s the one who has to go meet Barry, when polite manner dictated he come to her. Then again, she’s scarcely known Barry to show actual manners without the King or Queen around.

Caitlín pauses in the doorway. “I don’t suppose we could get lost in the palace for a few hours?”

She could stand to be alone with Ronnie and get to know him better. Something tells her that if she were to lie about where she was to her mother later, Barry would happily back up her story.

But Ronnie remains a professional. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t bring you to the Crown Prince, milady.”

Lovingly, Caitlín rolls her eyes and continues through the door, led to the royal stables South of the castle. There, she finds Barry grooming the tallest black stallion, its coat shining like nothing she’s ever seen before. Her eyes draw to Barry’s broad shoulders, muscles moving beneath the white cotton of his shirt, his arms grown stronger still in comparison to last summer.

She clears her throat.

“Is it that time already?” Barry asks without turning to face her, while he runs a brush over the horse’s hide. “Here I thought I’d cleverly avoided today’s torture.”

“I don’t want to be here either” –Caitlín crosses her arms over her chest, glowering– “ _Your Highness_.”

“At least our moms aren’t here.”

“Why? Are you planning on throwing mud at me again?”

This does catch Barry’s attention; he turns to look at her, perhaps to check if she’s still holding that against him, but she meant it in good fun. Barry laughs, thinking back on those two kids chucking mud at each other like two people gone insane, and Caitlín can’t resist a smile of her own. Things were simpler back then, when neither of them had figured out the grander ploy behind these visits. Now, she imagines the only reason they’re somewhat civil to each other is because they do know, they were both tricked, and that’s created some common ground.

She comes a few steps closer, the stallion growing a little restless, and draws a hand along its jaw. “What’s his name?”

“Bolt. Because he’s fast like lightning.” Barry grins, the horse more than worthy of his pride and joy. “Do you ride?”

In any other circumstance Caitlín might hesitate confessing to a shortcoming, but Barry’s being pleasantly obliging, so she doesn’t see why she can’t admit to this. “Not very well,” she says, and wanders over to the white mare stabled alongside her mother’s horse, pulling away from her the moment she steps closer. “This is Lumi.”

“Lumi,” Barry repeats, searching for a deeper meaning behind the name. “Snow.”

“It seemed fitting,” she says, saddened by Lumi’s withholding nature; but could she expect anything else from an animal she shies away from simply because she refuses to bend to her will?

“She doesn’t trust you.”

Caitlín rolls her eyes. Lumi’s a horse, what would she know about trust?

“Have you ever groomed her yourself?” Barry steps closer, holding out a carrot for Lumi, which the mare doesn’t hesitate accepting.

Uncertain all of a sudden, Caitlín half-shrugs. “I was taught how.”

“But have you ever done it yourself?”

Her lips press together, reluctant to share yet another shortcoming when it’s clear Barry knows his way around horses astoundingly well — yet, she’s never seen Barry without this warmth, without this light shining from inside him, the side of him that loved his family and cared for his friends, and opened up his heart to his people. Did she lack that warmth? Do people –and animals– naturally shy away from her because she’s cold, dark, and seemingly untrustworthy?

“It’s important to create an emotional bond,” Barry says. “How else would she trust you enough to let you ride her?”

This silences Caitlín further, because she thought it a matter of effort and skill and the idea that there was something wild in Lumi that didn’t wish to be tamed. She never considered Lumi might let her if she just took the time to get to know her.

“Come on.” Barry smiles, and opens Lumi’s box. “I’ll help you out.”

Together they walk Lumi to the center of the stables, while Bolt returns to his own box. Caitlín highly doubts cleaning Lumi’s coat will help them bond, but she lets Barry guide her through the grooming process nonetheless. He teaches her how to clean Lumi’s hooves, lifting her legs one by one by running a hand down her leg and gently squeezing the tendon and she squeals in delight, because no one at home would ever let her do this, worried she might get hurt.

Barry helps her comb over Lumi’s coat to loosen any loose hair, dirt, and mud, before using a harder brush to get rid of all that. Then, they clean with a soft brush and comb through Lumi’s tail and mane. She finishes by cleaning around Lumi’s eyes and nose, earning her a playful nudge from her snout.

“See?” Barry says. “I told you it’d help.”

Caitlín eyes Barry with mild discontent, but can’t help the small smile that pulls at her lips. She’s learned more about horses the past hour than she has all the previous years from any of her tutors. Maybe, if she keeps this up, Lumi would become more cooperative when she’s saddled. “There’s no need to sound so smug about it.”

Barry tilts his head and frowns, as if no one’s ever suggested he might take a little too much pride in being right. “You think I’m smug?”

“What else would you call it?” Caitlín asks, stroking a loving hand down Lumi’s neck. “You always act like you’re better than me, just because you’re older.”

“Do I?” Barry huffs, arms flailing for a moment before he rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Caitlín purses her lips; part of her appreciates the apology, though it hardly makes up for all the years Barry’s spent ignoring her. Part of her remains skeptical about this sudden camaraderie they’ve adopted. Could Barry have ulterior motives?

 

 _Smug_ , Barry considers. _Am I smug?_

It’s the same question that occupied his mind most of yesterday and stole a significant amount of sleep overnight, spinning through his head like an incessant chorus line. He’s confident in a lot of his abilities but never overtly so, or so he liked to think, and there was nothing wrong with putting faith and trust in his own skills. Moreover he’s always thought Caitlín a little smug, never letting up when he made a mistake, showing off, especially in fields he’s talented in as well, not to mention her pretentiousness toward him. He’s never considered himself better than Caitlín. Has he?

Caitlín liked to act as if she’s better than him, but over time he’s come to accept that stemmed from gender roles she refused to adhere to, which Barry never believed she should in the first place. In all the most important ways, he and Caitlín were the same, equals even, and that’d started to include a lot of aptitudes he never expected.

Time taught him many things about a great deal of different subjects, and Caitlín’s difficult position was one of them. She’s both heiress to the throne and expected to marry and that seemed to him two impossible wishes to reconcile; maybe that’s why their parents dreamed of uniting their kingdoms. A union between their houses would ensure a Snow remained on the throne by the narrow sea.

But –in all that– where did love come in?

Should his heart be sacrificed and beat only for his people, or should he hold out for love?

Not too aware of where his feet are carrying him, he runs into Cisco, who he thought he agreed to meet at the shooting range.

“Cisco, where are you going?”

Cisco huffs. “Your _intended_ confiscated the range.”

“Wh–” he stutters, caught up in the image of Caitlín handling a bow and arrow as skillfully as she did a foil, “I’m sure she had a good reason.”

A grin appears on his best friend’s face before he slaps at his shoulder. “I’m starting to think you actually like her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

But even he fails to miss the clear hesitation in his voice, the part of him that’s grown used to having Caitlín around over the summer and that small unbelievable corner of his heart that’d started viewing her as a contender for his affection. Was that all their parents’ doing? Had he been subjected to Caitlín’s presence for so long something in him gave up on pushing her away?

Did he _like_ Caitlín?

Licking over his teeth he pushes past Cisco, calling “I’ll fix this,” over his shoulder as he heads for the shooting range. This is all too overwhelming to think about; he wanted a quiet day helping Cisco practice the bow and arrow, not another helpless quest through the more confusing parts of his mind. Who does Caitlín think she is bossing Cisco around like he’s a servant?

“Caitlín!” he shouts and hurries through the row of trees that obscures the range from view, just in time to watch Caitlín release her bow and hit bull’s-eye on the target.

Barry’s jaw drops.

“Yes?” Caitlín asks, and turns to him with brown curious eyes he swears were never that big before.

“You-” he starts, but finds no protest remains on his lips. What was it he planned to say?

His eyes draw to Caitlín’s right hand, three of her fingers covered in black leather to protect them from the bowstring, contrasting starkly with the white corseted dress she’s wearing.

In those few moments she’s not the little girl in the blue dress who rode in on her father’s horse, or the snooty twelve-year-old bossing him around; gone had the awkward duckling that stepped off the Lyrr last summer and replaced her had a beautiful young swan. Skin fair like snow, her hair an intense auburn like her eyes, and her lips pink like some of the cherry blossoms in the gardens behind the palace.

If at all possible, Caitlín’s eyes grow even wider. “Barry?”

Barry stumbles a step closer. “Who taught you how to shoot?”

“One of my tutors, Nyssa Al Ghul.”

Here he thought he managed to procure one of the best tutors in the land with Oliver Queen, but given the trade relations Caitlín’s father has across the sea it should come as no surprise his reach stretched as far as Nanda Parbat. No wonder Caitlín’s so good.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Caitlín says, “I told Cisco we’d be using the range today.”

“No, that’s-” Barry clears his throat, embarrassed how the ‘we’ of that statement stirs something below his waist. “It’s fine.”

 _Not this again_ , he thinks, this can’t happen around Caitlín. It’s disrespectful to think of her in this manner, yet his body doesn’t seem to be catching on.

He backs up a few steps and grabs his bow and quiver, trying to focus on anything but Caitlín’s body. “Do you hunt too, by any chance?”

“Only if there’s a threat of overpopulation,” Caitlín answers, and lines up another arrow. “Never for sport.”

And Barry can’t help himself; his eyes draw toward the perfect line of Caitlín’s body, her bare back showing how her shoulder blades squeeze together as she pulls back the bowstring, her skin pale despite the heat of summer, and he imagines it soft to the touch.

It’s that last thought that pushes him too far, that travels straight down to his loins and stutters in his thighs and has his trousers tent in such a way it leaves little to anyone’s imagination. This is bad. This is so bad.

“I have to go,” he breathes as he turns swiftly; he has to get out of here before Caitlín catches on, before he insults her and ruins any relationship they might have beyond repair.

“Why?” Caitlín says, lowering her bow to the ground. “We only just started.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t feel good,” he says, and with that he heads back to the palace, rushing past everyone whose path he crosses with a few flimsy excuses. Once inside his bedchamber he falls back against the door, sliding down the length of it until he’s sat on the floor. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing so that his awkward situation might disappear on its own.

No sooner has he successfully stopped thinking about Caitlín, however, or her voice sounds behind the door. Had she come to check on him?

“Here we are, milady,” the Chamberlain’s voice follows, “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, Chamberlain,” Caitlín says, “I’ll find my way back.”

Barry groans and looks around the room helplessly, but there’s nowhere for him to hide should Caitlín choose to come inside; the last thing he needs right now is Caitlín in his bedchamber.

“Ronnie,” comes Caitlín’s voice again, “Hey.”

Ronnie? One of the guards? How did Caitlín know him by name?

Curiosity piqued, Barry puts his ear to the door, hoping to catch some of the conversation Caitlín and Ronnie share. What he gets is half an hour of Caitlín flirting with one of the palace guards right outside his bedchamber where he’d fled to get away from her. Caitlín’s easy laughter at Ronnie’s jokes heats up his skin as if it were on fire, and her cute quips back make his blood boil. How did Ronnie make getting to know Caitlín seem so easy? Why did she flirt with Ronnie and not him?

Why is he so concerned about who Caitlín shows an interest in, all of a sudden?

Maybe Cisco was right. Maybe he’s been so blinded by the fact that he’s _supposed_ to like her he never noticed when that actually happened — he’s tried so hard not to see her the way his parents hoped he would, yet here he is, eavesdropping on her, jealous of one of his own guards, overwhelmed by how much of an unmitigated disaster this is.

Because there’s no version of their story that will ever end with Caitlín liking him back. ~~~~

.

 

Caitlín’s legs swing back and forth under the wooden bridge, toes dipping into the water of the creek below. She hoped getting away from the palace might help, that the forest might give her some space to breathe and set aside her worries, but not her book nor the water cascading along the rocks drowns out her thoughts.

A few days from now she’ll start her seventh summer in the central lands, and while she awaits the reunion with her friends with great anticipation, the reason behind the summer was getting more and more difficult to ignore. A year from now she’ll be turning eighteen, and her father’s health waned with every passing moon; his greatest wish remained the continuation of his bloodline, a Snow on the throne in whatever capacity, but her greatest and most fearful wish had become him living long enough to see that day come to pass. If he died, the crown would pass to her, but she didn’t feel ready to rule, even with her mother by her side.

Could a beneficial marriage alleviate those fears?

Would marrying Barry make everything better somehow?

For once she didn’t have the answers, nor did any book in all the land, and up until now she’s been too frightened to talk to anyone; a great ruler isn’t meant to show fear, but relies on the advice of others all the same. It’s been a daunting year and she’s grateful she gets to spend the summer elsewhere, somewhat separated from her worries, even though she’ll carry them with her no matter the change in scenery.

She stands up, intent on venturing deeper into the woods.

“Princess.”

“ _Hunter_.” Caitlín gasps and startles a step back, coming face to face with one of her father’s advisors. She hasn’t had much interaction with the man, but he always had something or other to say at meetings — she suspects part of the reason her father kept him around was precisely because he so often disagreed with her father’s decisions, and the king enjoyed a good debate. “You scared me.”

“Apologies,” Hunter says, and bows his head. “You seemed far away. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

She has grown so beautiful, Hunter catches himself thinking, this small girl he helped bring about by way of magic; a daughter, not a son, so that the Snow name would end with the king. For years now the King and Queen have been distracted, perhaps even blinded by their love for the princess, and that worked well for him. It wouldn’t be long before the king’s health waned, and the throne would be vulnerable.

“Hiding from your mother?” Hunter inquires.

“She’s had six dresses made for me this week alone.” Caitlín sighs, following the footpath carved out through the woods. “To look special for my intended.”

She hates how bitter she’s started to sound, even though the thought of marrying Barry doesn’t appeal to her in the least, but she’s never been the kind to be ungrateful for anything her parents have done for her.

“You weren’t betrothed to Prince Barry, milady,” Hunter says, falling into step beside her. “Your parents want the choice to be yours.”

“Is it a choice when Barry and I are forced together every summer?” Caitlín asks, having a hard time so much as thinking about the possibility of falling in love when she knows she’s _supposed_ to.

It’s the first time she voices her concerns aloud, and she never expected to be making this concession to a stranger. Her father values Hunter’s advice, however, so she sees no harm in talking to him now — perhaps he can debate her another side of this, like he so often does her father.

“Is there nothing about him that appeals to you?” Hunter asks, pleased to hear she’s grown wise beyond her years, that her mother’s romantic ideals run through her veins as much as the stone cold Snow logic. Perhaps, in time, he’ll make Caitlín his bride, a final insult to the House of Snow.

“No.” Caitlín scrunches her nose. “He’s arrogant and brazen and immature.”

After six summers nothing’s changed between her and Barry; they’re still two kids far too aware of what’s expected of them, or rather, what their parents wish for them, and it’s never once brought them closer together. Sure, she calls him arrogant and brazen and immature, but she could stand to be a little nicer, a little more respectful, and, perhaps, accept that he’s in the same position she is. For all the shortcomings she accredits him Barry carries the same burden she does. After his father passes he’s meant to wear the crown too.

Would uniting their kingdoms divide any of that weight evenly?

“I’m not myself around him,” she confesses, and for the first time in six years she realizes that might be the biggest problem; neither she nor Barry have shown their true selves. They met as kids too stubborn to let each other in, and growing up never changed that; every summer meant the end of life as they knew it and the start of a life their parents wished for them, and every June until September they determined to rebel against that.

Things did change over the years, of course; she’s found comfort in Barry’s home and among the people which has helped her connect to her own people, but that never erases the fact that the idea of marrying Barry fails to appeal. Not in the way she’d like it to. There should be more to love and marriage than duty, and even though that’s what her parents want for her it’s never stopped them from guiding her toward Barry.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t want him to see me as–” She kicks at the dirt, biting at her lower lip, mulling over the right words. _Someone real?_ Someone fragile and vulnerable and insecure, cold and calculating, or not worth his time. She’s not herself around Barry because that meant truly opening herself up to the possibility of loving him, and—

“Say what you mean to say,” Hunter insists.

“I’m afraid he’ll chose me because he has to,” Caitlín says, slightly perturbed that Hunter reads her so easily, partly relieved someone’s taking notice. “Because he sees it as his duty.”

“The same way you do.”

“How can I not?” Caitlín shrugs. “People keep talking to me about choice and my own agency, but they also say how good it’ll be for the kingdom if marry Barry.”

At this, Hunter falls silent, and stares straight ahead, his arms folded neatly behind his back. It’s curious, Caitlín thinks, how eager he seemed to give her advice on Barry but holds back his opinion now. Was it because he deemed her too young?

“You disagree,” Caitlín prompts.

“It will spread your father’s resources too thin.”

“Wouldn’t we be combining our resources?” Caitlín frowns. “We have trading partners across the sea who provide flax and linen and timber, while King Henry has access to medicines any kingdom would be lucky to have. Our army is strongest at sea and King Henry’s by land. Combining our knowledge can only benefit us both.”

Even more so the people desire it too. In theory it sounds like marrying their worlds will unite the best of both, and it makes perfect sense for her parents to see that too. But then what about her choice?

“You’ve given this some thought,” Hunter says, surprised as much as she is at her reasoned response. “This union.”

It sounds preposterous coming from one of her father’s advisors, and she hasn’t considered it for the reasons Hunter assumes — if anything she’s thought simply of the good of the kingdom, how much stronger her father’s and King Henry’s might become, and how her knowledge of the seas and Barry’s of the lands would result in a far stronger political position. Which would prove beneficial to the people. Not her.

She hasn’t actually considered marrying Barry for love.

 

As the sun rises on another summer –he’s lost count of how many there’ve been– Barry lingers outside the entrance to the gardens.

Caitlín and Queen Carla arrived two days ago under the usual amount of fanfare, and the moment he’d laid eyes on Caitlín, grown more beautiful still, he’d decided this summer would be different. He wouldn’t spend another three months trying to escape the clutches of something he’d never given a chance in the first place, but rather he’d embrace it, explore it, because however much he’d felt his agency impeded that only went as far as he’d let it.

How would he ever know his own heart, if he didn’t put it on the line?

His only hope is that Caitlín will be open to the idea too.

Barry’s palms are sweaty as he approaches Caitlín in the garden, settled in the shade of a grand willow tree, a book opened on top of her outstretched legs. This must be the first time he seeks her out without his mother telling him to, and the thought saddens him; they’ve both wasted a lot of summers disliking each other when they could’ve learned about each other’s worlds. Their lives are so similar in almost every way, both burdened with a future crown, and it’s a shame neither of them realized that sooner.

“What are you reading?”

“A book your mom gave me.”

“Let me guess.” He grins. “Romance?”

Caitlín huffs, “What would you know about romance?” unfazed by his interruption or the silence that follows. If this were any previous summer he would have stormed off in anger, shouting fire and brimstone about _Her Royal Highness’_ prissy attitude and how little interest he had in forming any kind of relationship with her. But if they don’t grow past this now they never will.

Maybe it won’t work, maybe Caitlín’s animosity is all he’ll get, but at least he’ll know he tried.

“I know it isn’t meant to be forced.”

At that, Caitlín blinks up at him, her eyes searching his face for any ulterior meaning behind his words, which he takes as his cue to sit down in the grass next to her and try to say what he came here to say.

“Do you think that maybe–” he starts, “just for this summer– we could call a truce?”

“A truce?” Caitlín’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but she closes the book in her lap and grants him her full attention, listening intently. Barry takes this as a good sign.

“No games. No tricks. No ditching each other. Maybe we could” –he shrugs– “try and be friends?”

“A bold proposition.” Caitlín gives him a swift once-over as if appraising his intentions, but he swears there’s a sliver of amusement pulling at a corner of her mouth. “Why now?”

“Look, I don’t know.” He sighs. “Sometimes I feel like the only people who don’t want this are the two people they want this for.”

On that, Caitlín agrees. She thought herself alone in this fight and started worrying her obstinacy would be the sole undoing of their parents’ newest heart’s wish, even if she’s long since started questioning her own. Barry’s sweet coming to her like this, and at this point she owes him the benefit of the doubt.

“And there’s strength in numbers?” Barry asks, nose scrunching.

Caitlín smiles, her cheeks coloring pink. It’s like Barry reads her mind.

“We shouldn’t waste another summer hating each other.”

“I don’t hate you,” Caitlín replies half a beat later, as if that statement should have been apparent to him all along. He never hated Caitlín either; that was one of those big words kids used when they hadn’t yet learned any better, and perhaps he never disliked her either — he disapproved of what she represented, or what his parents hoped she would, but that’s never been Caitlín’s fault.

After all these summers together, had they both somehow matured without either of them noticing?

“No?”

“I dislike how this was chosen for us. How it’s being forced,” Caitlín says, mystified by how easy this is all of a sudden; for years neither of them have so much as tried making a friendship work, but now that all seems possible. Had they grown up? Had they both realized how silly it was fighting something they may not even find? It’s rather smug of both of them to think that letting the other in will inadvertently lead to the outcome their parents wanted.

“But I don’t hate you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Caitlín holds out her hand. “Truce.”

“Truce.” He nods, and seals their vow with a handshake.

 

In the morning, after another thorough grooming, they take Lumi and Bolt out for a ride in the grasslands.

It’s been a year and Caitlín took Barry’s advice on how to bond with Lumi to heart, and she daresay she’s succeeded. Not only does Lumi no longer shy away from her, her riding lessons started paying off; she’s even begun to enjoy her solitary rides in the woods, just her and Lumi and whatever season had taken hold of the forest, a freedom she’d missed out on for far too long. She understood now why Barry took such pride in Bolt, because it’s the same she felt toward Lumi.

“What do you think?” Barry asks as they come to the top of a hill.

The view stills a breath at the back of her throat.

An ocean of green stretches as far as the eye can see, waves of grass swelling in rhythm with the wind, which could easily be mistaken for the sound of running water — she considered herself a child of the sea but in that moment she understands what it is to be a daughter of the earth, to walk among such splendor and might it makes her life seem insignificant in comparison. The sea often humbled her with its mercurial nature, but she never realized Barry knew the sensation too.

Caitlín beams, “I think I’ve been missing out,” and without warning starts Lumi into a gallop down the hill.

That takes Barry’s breath away.

His heart starts in a pattern foreign to him at seeing Caitlín like this, so free and unencumbered, spontaneous, and he’s quick to follow her example. Bolt’s legs shoot out from underneath him, determined to catch up. He can’t be considered smug or be accused of showing off if Caitlín does the same.

For an endless sea of moments the rest of the world dissolves; there’s only the wind in his ears and the thump of Bolt’s hooves in the grass, and, in the far distance, Caitlín experiencing the exact same thing. Laughter bubbles in his chest, even as he realizes he’s lost the race, because freedom isn’t nearly as elusive a notion as he thought — it lives as something wild inside him, inside Caitlín, and there are so many ways to tap into it. Their titles don’t limit them, nor do their responsibilities to the throne; it’s merely a matter of seizing the instances they do get.

Caitlín rides back to meet him. “I thought you said you were fast.”

“That’s not fair” –Barry slaps at Bolt’s flank– “Lumi’s a lot younger than Bolt.”

“Are you going to blame Bolt for his rider’s shortcomings, Your Highness?” Caitlín raises an eyebrow in question, and for a moment he fears he insulted her skill again. Luckily the upward curl of her mouth tells him otherwise. Who is this girl? Had he been so reluctant to see her that he never noticed how incredibly fun she was? Beautiful? Challenging?

Everything he once disliked about her now served to show how alike they were, and every prejudice he’d ever held to fails to withstand scrutiny.

“What is it?” Caitlín asks when he’s silent for too long, and she blushes that same cherry blossom pink he recalls.

Barry shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, while a single thought occupies his mind, one that washes over him not unlike ocean waves.

All these years, all these summers, he’s been missing out too.

He’s been missing out on her.

 

Thus, the mood for the summer is set.

Whereas the past saw them come together against their will, Barry and Caitlín now seek out each other’s company daily. It’s like the tides turn, and everything that seemed impossible before now holds so much potential they each grab at it with both hands, eyes wide open. They don’t do it for their parents, nor do they do it for the good of either their kingdoms, but rather they owe it to themselves to see if a friendship is viable.

Their mornings are still devoted to studies, though Scribe Wells is happy to teach them both, about the latest discoveries in mathematics and science, about the medicine imported from abroad, and even about magic, a topic few tutors broached because it was one of the forbidden arts, and practicing it was punishable by death.

Afternoons are spent with friends, on fencing or archery, or sitting side by side reading for hours.

When King Henry sends Barry to the village to settle a dispute Caitlín tags along; the people welcome them both with open arms, their pure heart’s wishes for them plain to recognize in their faces. For the first time in her life, Caitlín connects to a part of herself she feared she didn’t possess — here she is a Crown Princess, and her words and advice are heeded.

Barry, in turn, is a natural at this, but rather than envy him Caitlín decides to learn from him, adopt his calm register and tone of voice, and his uncanny ability to open up his heart to every new person he meets.

Their friendship grows stronger with each passing day and it’s difficult for either of them to believe it used to be so different. Barry wishes he’d seen this sooner, how beneath all of Caitlín’s beauty hid a girl who simply wanted to be accepted, be a part of something and be someone more than her title, just like him. Caitlín wishes she hadn’t been so stubborn all these years, hadn’t perceived a dozen degrees of separation between her and Barry, or feared what this could become.

Summer could last forever, for all they cared.

 

“How do you cool down around here?” Caitlín asks one particularly stifling summer day; her mother forbade her from seeking comfort in the cool confines of the castle, insistent she soak up the sunlight as much as she could. She’d fled to her familiar willow tree with Barry, but the shade didn’t break her fever either; the heat kept stealing her focus, frustrating to no end.

Slumped back against the trunk of the centuries-old tree, Barry looks up from his book and grins. “Shouldn’t you know that after all these years?”

Caitlín rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’m serious.”

“I don’t know.” Barry shrugs, sitting up. “We could go to the lake.”

“The lake?”

“It’s a well kept secret around here.” Barry stands, and offers Caitlín his hand, Caitlín’s fingers cool to the touch. “We’ll have to take the horses. But it’ll be cooler there.”

Their eyes meet as Caitlín stands to her full height, and Barry’s breath stutters and stumbles in his chest, taken by Caitlín’s beauty and grace, even in the face of the hottest summer the central lands have seen. Somehow, she makes it all seem effortless.

“We could go swimming,” he says, his mouth dry.

Caitlín smiles. “I’ll go get my things.”

By the time they’ve gathered all their supplies and the horses the sun has reached its peak, resulting in the highest temperature summer had thus far provided. The ride to the lake takes them through the woods, specks of pollen dancing in the rays of sunshine that peek through the foliage.

“You’ve never told me about this lake,” Caitlín says, eager to fill the silence with more conversation; Barry’s managed to surprised her in a great many ways, but it’s his keen mind she wished to explore the most. She’s wasted too many years presuming their academic pursuits wouldn’t match.

“I don’t go there often.”

“Why not?”

“Never have much reason to.”

“I guess you’re used to this heat.”

“I guess.” Barry shrugs. “But I prefer winter; the quiet and the snow.”

“Snow?” Caitlín’s eyes alight with mirth. “You get snow?”

“You don’t?”

“I live by the sea.” Caitlín blushes. “We get the same weather all year round.”

She’s always thought it funny that despite her family’s name no snow fell in their small kingdom by the sea, though the name traced far further inland the further one looked back in time. The Snows of old came from the mountains, but increasingly harder winters drove them toward the sea, where they settled in the more moderate climate and built the beginning of the Snow dynasty.

She’d never seen snow with her own two eyes, and she wasn’t likely to during her summers in the central lands either.

“I’d love to see it sometime,” Barry says, drawing her from her thoughts. “The sea.”

Caitlín looks at him, an indefinable softness to her eyes. “Maybe you will.”

Once at the lake they settle on the small beach under the protection of some overhanging branches. A strong wind comes in over the water, providing much needed relief from the summer heat.

And that’s where they stay for several hours.

They share stories about other seasons in between every summer, snowfall in the central lands and the high winds near the narrow sea, of wildlife in the forest and the animals of the sea, about friends and family spread far and wide.

They read their books in silence, enjoying the ruckus of nature all around them.

Caitlín swims in her summer suit, and afterwards Barry watches with great fascination as her long hair dries in curls. He can’t fathom why he ever thought her boring or unattractive, because the young woman in front of him is a dream come true, and he should never have spent so many years thinking otherwise.

As the day draws to a close they decide to meet their parents for dinner, and head back to the palace with enough time to spare to change into something more formal.

In the stables, Barry helps Caitlín dismount, his hands skating along her hips and waist while she turns in his arms, caught between Barry’s body and Lumi’s. Despite the refreshing swim Caitlín’s skin heats up again in no time, and her breathing deepens, every sensation coursing through her veins defying definition. In all these years no boy has ever been so close, nor has she ever wanted one closer, but Barry challenges those convictions. Why now? Why here? What changed?

Respectful of her personal space, Barry draws a step back, hands falling away, though his eyes are drawn to the delicate gold chain around her neck.

“You– you still wear it,” Barry stutters, taken by her wide eyes and plump lips, but her attachment to that necklace even moreso. It’d been a gift from a clueless boy to a girl who wouldn’t know him for another ten years and he always figured it was Queen Carla who made Caitlín wear it. Had he been so wrong? Was there another reason?

“I never take it off.”

“Why?”

“It’s always been with me.” Caitlín shrugs. “For as long as I can remember.”

Caitlín looks at Barry and Barry looks at her, and there are words at the tips of their tongues that never quite make it past their lips — perhaps something like ‘I’ve been wrong about you all along,’ or ‘I understand what our parents see now’ or something closer to ‘I like you. Is that strange after all these years?’

Neither of them says it because neither is sure this wasn’t intended, that this wasn’t the very purpose these summers served, and even after all these years they still don’t enjoy being made to do something.

“Come on,” Barry says instead, his chest heavier than it should be, “I want to show you something,” and soon they make their way to the back of the palace, past the willow tree and the maze, past flower beds of red and white roses, and the pond dotted with water lilies.

“Barry” –Caitlín tries her best to keep up with Barry’s quick pace– “Where are we going?”

No sooner has she asked or Barry comes to a halt, and like the grasslands at the start of summer this view steals her breath away. Trees stretch further than Caitlín can make out, each of them blooming with white and pink cherry blossoms richer than she thought possible. Somehow her eyes aren’t big enough to see, her field of vision captured by the abundance of nature, of the earth, and it starts the same exciteful kind of flutter in her stomach that having Barry close evoked.

A breeze sweeps through the orchard, prying loose a wave of blossoms that descends over them.

“Oh–” Caitlín gasps as one of the petals dwindling down touches her nose, and she giggles, “Oh my God.”

“It’s not snow.” Barry grins. “But it’s as close as you’ll get on short notice.”

Caitlín throws her head back and laughs, closing her eyes as the blossoms kiss her cheeks, her hair and her arms, and even though it’s not real snow, even though the summer heat will start bothering her again soon enough, for a few blissful moments she can pretend it’s winter.

“It’s beautiful,” Caitlín says, and looks at Barry, who hasn’t been able to look away from her.

“Yeah, it is,” he whispers.

Caitlín realizes all too well Barry isn’t talking about the cherry blossoms.

This summer has been so different for them, so freeing, so life-changing, and when both Caitlín and Barry take a step toward each other they mean for that to last. It’s winter now, if but for a few moments, and when their lips meet they agree on that; this is their choice, for them, and not some wish nourished over the past eighteen years by other people. For just that moment in time, a boy kisses a girl in the dead of winter, it’s snowing all around them, and the rest of the world is forgotten.

When their eyes meet again the truce they called shakes the ground beneath their feet; everything that was certain two breaths ago suddenly turns on its head. Was this them giving in after years of being forced together, bending to their parents’ will? Or was it fate they made their own?

“We should–” Caitlín prompts, unsure of what she means to say; she’s frightened, and cold, and she needs time to process this.

“Yes” –Barry clears his throat, reluctant to move but all too aware this kiss has opened up a realm of implications he’s too inexperienced to comprehend– “we should.”

They make their way back to the castle in complete silence.

Neither of them will admit to it later; they’ll file the kiss away as an analytical curiosity, a testing of the waters of sorts, but it leaves an imprint somewhere nothing else has touched before, something pure, and something simple. Something true.

 

.

 

Seven summers.

It’s been seven summers, each one more peculiar than the one before. Seven years have seen Barry and Caitlín bloom into two young adults who are more than their titles, no less than a boy and a girl, two people kind and generous, flawed and often overly confident, charming and clever, two fully formed individuals both academically and physically. Equals, by any definition.

That eighth summer Barry comes to Caitlín. Many letters were sent back and forth between Queen Nora and Queen Carla arguing the details of the decision but to Barry, as well as Caitlín, it seemed fair he should make the journey for once. In truth fairness wasn’t on either of their minds, rather Caitlín wanted Barry to see her world, and Barry very much wished to experience the sea firsthand.

Despite Caitlín’s expressed wishes, her mother viewed Barry’s visit as cause for a grand celebration and wastes no time ordering flowers, setting up a great banquet in honor of Barry’s arrival, and even has a new dress made for her. The throne room is transformed into a ballroom, red velvet covering the floors, ivy wound around pillars of stone, vases with rare flowers adding even more exotic colors.

Caitlín realized too late her mother expected Barry to propose, and that thought caused her to flee the castle on more than one occasion, unable to stop her mind from racing. She ran to the bridge over the stream trying to catch her breath, but found no more oxygen out here than she had at the palace.

“Don’t dawdle,” her mother urges, pushing her forward toward the throne room, where Barry, his parents, and every noble in the land stood waiting for her entrance.

Her new dress scratches against her skin, though that could be her imagination.

For the past nine months thoughts of last summer have spun her into an unnerved frenzy; she dreamed of cherry blossoms and oceans of grass, and Barry’s unbelievably green eyes, yet when she woke up alone in her own bed the cold took hold of her. What if she remembered wrong? What if she loved a dream? What if Barry didn’t feel the same way?

What was it she felt, anyway?

She’d tried making sense of it all, analyze it as if it were one of her science experiments, but with Barry miles away that proved impossible. Last summer had left a deep impression all over her body, but it was one she couldn’t read, didn’t know how to translate, and so she struggled every single day.

As a child, the idea of leaving home for the summer annoyed her, and even though she stayed home this year, even though she’d warmed to summers in the central lands, it’s this summer that scares her senseless. One moon from now she’ll turn eighteen, she’ll become eligible, and what if that’s what Barry wants? What if he won’t take more time getting to know her? What if he’s like any other boy after the exact same thing?

What if last summer, despite her purest wishes, hadn’t been real?

All her life she’s been told one day they’d be wedded, she’d be a queen and help Barry rule a land far greater than this world had ever beheld, but time had showed them both that’s not what they wanted. What if Barry changed his mind? What if he met someone new? What if he never liked her to begin with?

Yet, the instant Caitlín lays eyes on Barry that all fades away; all her doubts, all her fears, every lingering question dissipates as her knees buckle. Up until that moment she didn’t know, she wasn’t sure about her own feelings. Then, Barry smiles at her and she sees all the way inside him and whatever she’d tried so desperately to lock away blooms like a flower in spring, opening up to every possibility the future held.

 

For Barry, nine months have never lasted longer. He thought about Caitlín every day, lying awake at night questioning if last summer meant anything at all, or if it’d been nothing but a futile attempt at forcing some kind of friendship.

During days of solitude, of loneliness, he revisits the gardens and the willow tree, the lake, and takes Bolt out riding whenever he gets the chance. It’s never quite the same without Caitlín’s laughter, without her brilliant smile and quick wit, and the proud little rise in one of her eyebrows. It’s during those same days that his doubts disappear. If he misses her this much, if he can’t stop dreaming or thinking about her, it must mean Caitlín’s found her way into his heart.

When it snows that winter, the snow flakes reminiscent of flower petals dwindling down onto Caitlín’s snow white skin, Barry resolves to ask for her hand in marriage. Last summer had anchored Caitlín into his heart to stay, and nothing could dissuade him from this course of action.

Still, the prospect of a throne room filled with noblemen and women, of his parents and Caitlín’s parents scrutinizing their every move, it starts the collar of his dress uniform pinching around his throat. What if Caitlín doesn’t feel the same way? What if there’s a reason they never talked about that kiss? What if he made last summer into something it decidedly wasn’t?

Yet, the moment Barry sees Caitlín he’s more certain than he’s ever been in his entire life. Caitlín comes in through the grande doors, followed closely by her mother and a handmaiden or two, and a breath catches at the back of his throat. How is it at all possible she’s grown more beautiful?

Her hair lies over one of her shoulders in long wavy curls, all held together by a delicate silver circlet crown.

His heartbeat stutters.

He’s in love with her, heart and soul.

“Go on, my beautiful boy,” his mother whispers at his back, pushing a hand to his shoulders for good measure. In the small infinity it takes for him to bridge the distance between him and Caitlín he sees their past unfold in reverse, from that secret kiss they shared in the gardens last summer, to the moment he stumbled toward Caitlín’s cot all those years ago.

He’s come full circle.

Except this time his feet don’t stumble and there’s no hesitation and there’s no doubt in his mind he’s exactly where he needs to be.

Caitlín and Barry meet in the center of the room, red velvet beneath their feet, flowers all around them, as well as the eyes of the kingdom. In all that, however, they only have eye for each other. They forget themselves as neither of them bows.

“Hi,” Barry breathes.

“Hi.” Caitlín blushes, and finally finds herself able to breathe again. Her heart beats like something wild inside her, like it’s trying to break free from its reins, make this choice for her and her alone.

Wordlessly, unseeing, Barry reaches inside his pocket.

Up comes the most gorgeous diamond ring Caitlín’s eyes have ever beheld, at its center a clear blue gem.

“Barry–” Caitlín whispers, tears filling her eyes. _Is this real?_ , she wonders, is this true? Or is this merely beneficial to them both? Her heart couldn’t take it if it were the latter, if last summer proved nothing but another fantasy she’d fabricated to make life more bearable.

“Will you marry me, Caitlín Snow?”

A hush falls over the room, each onlooker waiting for Caitlín’s response with bated breath, but none so much as Barry. This is it, he thinks, this is real — Caitlín’s the something pure and true in his heart and he’s wished for her for so long, never realizing it’d been her he was dreaming of all this time.

Caitlín swallows hard, voice growing smaller, far too aware of all the eyes turned to her. “You want to marry me?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?” Barry asks. “You’re all I ever wanted. You’re beautiful.”

“But what else?” Caitlín insists, catching her mother’s disapproving look over Barry’s shoulder. But there has to be more than beauty, more than just skin deep desire.

“What else?” Barry’s eyes widen, his heart falling. Did Caitlín not want this? Didn’t she feel the same way? They don’t have to marry, not now, not yet, but he does know he doesn’t want to spend another season without her.

“Caitlín” –he folds his hands around hers– “you know what else.”

For a brief moment Caitlín’s eyes flicker across the room with uncertainty, and he understands. She needs to hear he’s not doing this because he has to, because someone’s been whispering in his ear for such a long time he gave into _their wish_ , a selfish one. A loveless one.

Barry licks his lips, catching Caitlín’s eyes. “You’ve been able to keep up with me since we were kids. You challenge me and you laugh at me. You don’t treat me like royalty. You’ve–”

His eyes fall to her necklace, the golden locket he gave her as a child, which may well have been his own heart. “You’ve always been there.”

Right there at a corner of his eye, and now he can see her, all of her, and Caitlín knows this, of course she does, they’ve both been on the exact same journey from opposite ends and here they are, finally meeting, after all this time.

At last, Barry’s granted a smile, along with that beautiful blush in her cheeks.

“This is strange,” Caitlín confesses, her eyes twinkling nonetheless. Never in a million years had Caitlín thought she’d see the day that proved wishes do come true. She never thought it would be Barry, nor did Barry imagine it’d ever be Caitlín at the end of his quest, but here they are, pure in each other’s hearts.

“Would you– like to dance?”

Caitlín’s eyebrows rise. “You dance?”

“I’m a prince.”

“Well,” Caitlín laughs, “in that case.”

And so they dance, Caitlín’s hand held in Barry’s, Barry’s hand along Caitlín’s waist, her blue dress flowing like the ocean waves.

Drowning in Barry’s eyes, Caitlín considers the journey they’ve been on, and comes to a standstill, held in Barry’s arms like it’s where she belongs. Maybe love wasn’t a thing that befell one unexpectedly, rather it was a lot like wading into the sea, dipping a toe inside to test the waters, but given enough time, given enough space, the temperature becomes unnoticeable, and something that’d seemed scary became an extension of oneself.

“I’ll marry you, Barry Allen,” Caitlín whispers, and tangles her dainty fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. Barry shivers and tightens his arms around her, falling harder for her still. How had this taken them so long?

Their lips meet in a kiss, while their hearts fill with every promise yet to be made, and the joy of each season yet to come.

Applause breaks out all through the room and Caitlín giggles stuttering against his lips, an uncontainable kind of happiness that infects the entirety of the room. Caitlín’s head lands on his shoulder, and they resume their dance, a small show of ceremony to please the masses. Laughter echoes all through the palace, and everyone rejoices, because another pure heart’s wish came true.

Eighteen summers after Barry and Caitlín first met everyone’s wish for them remained the same.

For them to live happily ever after.

 

 

**\- fin -**

 


End file.
